


The Child Born From Flame

by orphan_account



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mutual Pining, Origin Story, Unresolved Ending, X-Men AU - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 12:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15024458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Despite Shiro’s claims, Keith knows that he’s not capable of living among normal people. Fire is chaos, fire is death, and fire has no place in a world so gentle, so kind, and so terribly easy to destroy.





	The Child Born From Flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetsonryse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetsonryse/gifts).



Fire: the destroyer of life. The beckoner of the ends of times, the great equalizer.

From the flames of Hades in Greek mythology, to the deepest pits of Hell in Christian lore. From fire-breathing dragons to the great, disastrous flames of wildfires that can incinerate miles and miles of foliage, of life, of any speck of humanity left in the barren, charcoal twigs and ashen debris.

Fire, Keith knows, is anger. Fire is death.

Fire is heat and pain and destruction. Fire is unforgiving and untouchable.

Fire is himself.

His rage, his uncontrollable urges to lay waste to the world around him. The rampant parts of himself that lash out even when he wants to be tender. The horrible, forbidden actions that he carries out seemingly against his own will—he’s unhinged, wild. He’s chaos incarnate. No one in the world is safe from a monster like himself.

In youth, he remembers leaving those blackened trails behind him, decimating anything that managed to push him over the edge. He’d learned, from a young age, that an act even as innocent as reaching out to hold someone’s hand could result in catastrophic injury.

He knows that he’s only afraid of the world around him because it is so terribly easy to break.

But he also knows that the world can be gentle and kind. He’s seen the lush, green grasses that Pidge conjures up from the ground. He’s seen the artful slopes of waves that Lance drags from the fountains around the complex. He’s seen the statues that Hunk crafts effortlessly from stone, and the leaves, the dust, the stray papers and trash that Shiro makes dance through the air like ballerinas pirouetting, like tiny, human dancers cast out into the sky above them as Shiro waves his fingers through the air. He knows that there is beauty to be found in people like him, knows that many of his peers could enrich the lives of all of the normal people out there in that big, judgmental world, if only the normal humans would accept them, but—

He’s still struggling just not to hurt anybody. And he knows, deep down, that there is no way that his fire could ever be anywhere as beautiful as Shiro’s tiny dancers in the air.

Keith considers the barren, fire-licked wasteland that he's left in his path. He thinks about the death and the destruction that brought him here now, to this school filled with people who are just like him that he never would have imagined might actually exist. It’s hidden away under an innocuous name, behind the giant wrought-iron bars and layers and layers of secrecy. But here, he knows that he should feel safe.

Here, Alfor had told him, it’s okay to be himself.

He'd lived so many years before this thinking that he was the only person like him in existence. He'd spent so much time agonizing over the abysmal realization that no one in the universe could ever truly understand him. But now, as he sits idly in his bunk, as he considers the days and the weeks and the years of rampant, fiery destruction that have led him into the arms of _Alfor’s School For Troubled Youths_ , he wonders if it's really possible for anyone to actually understand him _here_ either.

There are people here, like him, of course. There are people walking these halls who grew up just as terrified and confused as he has. There are people here with powers that are stronger than he could ever imagine, people who have learned to control their own wild destructiveness with an ease that he still can't entirely grasp. But he knows that they must have been frightened once as well. He knows that they must have been exactly where he is now: lost and alone. Horrified of what they’re capable of, doubting that anything could ever get better. Wondering if maybe, they might just be better off dead instead.

But it's only been a few months since a small group of seemingly completely commonplace police officers scooped him out of foster care and shipped him off here. It's been just twelve weeks since he made the journey from a nondescript town in the middle of nowhere to the city in sunny New York, to a school in the suburbs which, if he didn't know any better, he might think was nothing but an ordinary school. Mutants, Alfor had told him, are the best kept secret in today's modern society. Mutants live just under the surface of this planet's skin. They're secretive, but hidden right in plain sight. They walk among the common folk and are never registered as anything different, as long as they can learn to keep their abilities in check.

He’ll be safe here, he’d been told. He’ll be kept quiet and obscured just under the thin cloak of this place’s secrecy. He isn’t sure how he feels about being something so unsightly that he must be locked away. He isn’t sure if, anymore, he even has the right to feel indignant about that.

He’s hurt a lot of people, he knows. Accidentally, and sometimes… on purpose. And he knows that his rage sometimes gets the better of him. He knows that what he’s capable of is far too dangerous to ever be allowed beyond the bars of this cage, holding him in.

He hasn't been allowed to leave and scope out the city as many others have. Still, after three torturous months of endless practice, he hasn't learned to keep his powers completely in check. But Alfor seems to think that someday, he'll get there. Alfor seems to think a lot of things about him, but Keith isn't sure if the guy really knows him well enough yet to understand what a monumental mistake trusting him might really be.

Because last night, during his final classes of the evening, he'd been sent out into the courtyard to meditate. Lance, that insufferable water mutant who seems to have had a bone to pick with him before either of them had even exchanged a single sentence, had been showing off some stupid trick that he'd learned in a previous class, during the months that he's resided here before Keith even knew that this place existed. He'd been bragging to a few girls about how well he'd learned to hone his talents, how he’d mastered summoning them at will. He'd been talking to them as though he might have been the only student at this entire school who could comprehend how it might possibly feel not to be a monster, but a person. He’d prattled on for so long that Keith had felt as though he might never get the sound of Lance’s stupid voice out of his thoughts.

And Keith had known that it wasn't directed at him. He'd known that, despite the fact that Lance often _had_ taken every opportunity to make every low blow possible, and to go after him whether he invited criticism or not, in this one instance, he hadn't intended any harm.

But he hadn't been able to focus through the sound of Lance's whispering. There'd been a voice inside of his head, squealing like nails on a chalkboard, telling him, hushed and sinister and entirely too all-consuming to ignore:

_‘You'll never be like him.’_

_‘You'll never be good enough to exist among these people.’_

_‘You're wild, you're unable to be tamed.’_

_‘You'll destroy everything.’_

_‘You'll kill all of them.’_

_‘The only thing left in your path will be the bald, blackened flesh of an Earth that you've decimated along the way.’_

And he hadn't been able to control it. The flames had consumed him. He'd been powerless to stop it as the heat had burst from the pores in his skin, engulfed him in warmth, in a rageful, unrelenting hug. As the people around him had screamed and barreled away—damaged by the fire that he could never entirely feel. He'd found that no fire could ever hurt him, even if he’d wanted it to. He'd found that, no matter how hard he'd tried to understand why so many people were afraid of his flames, when he touched his fingers to any heat, be it his own or something foreign, it never felt like nothing more than an inkling of warmth. Than comfort. Than something soft and gentle, something reliable.

To Keith, fire was life. Fire was solace. Fire was the only home he’d ever known.

And no matter how hard he tried, no matter how desperately he prayed to someday find someone who could understand this, when he allowed his abilities to get out of hand, when he slipped or stumbled, people always ran.

He was starting to give up hope.

But he'd burst into flame in the center of the meditation group. Lance had suffered minor burns, nothing more than Alfor would tell him later would be expected from touching too-hot food. Which apparently wasn't a big deal. Which, Keith would learn later as well, wouldn't be nearly the worst of the damage that could be expected of him in the future.

But Lance had bounded away, Pidge had cried out in fear, Hunk had begged for mercy.

And calmly, as though none of this was strange, uncertain, unsafe or out of place, another boy from the front of the group had risen to his feet, raised his hands over his head and moved them about slowly, carefully, as though he were performing the intricate beginnings of a dance.

The air had wrapped itself around Keith, pushing the flame away. Keith had floundered in the wake of someone who could so easily quell his flames. He'd felt warmer then than he'd ever felt in his life.

The boy had smiled, stepped forward, extended a hand. In the face of Keith's destruction, when everyone else had tucked tail and run, this boy had stepped closer.

Now, even an entire day later, as Keith smothers his misery with a pillow against his face, willing away the hot burn of a flush against his cheeks, he isn't sure what the Hell that boy's problem must have been.

"I'm Shiro," he'd said quietly, casually, "I mean... my full name is Takashi Shirogane, but... most people just call me Shiro. You've got quite the powers, don't you? That fire was really impressive."

It had been the first time that anyone had ever complimented Keith, that he could remember. In the face of it, Keith hadn't known how to react.

So, instead of thanking the boy, instead of accepting his outstretched hand, Keith had knocked it away. He'd risen from his seated position, stormed away, and ignored professor Coran's desperate cries behind him.

He's been hiding out in here, since being called into Alfor's office later in the evening. He's been sitting here, thinking over his mistakes. Wondering why in the world he was so stupid and tactless that he couldn't even manage to accept someone's offered friendship correctly.

But that voice from before, it echoes around in his thoughts. It tells him that he'll never be able to be like that boy. It tells him that the boy must have wanted something else from him in place of the friendship that he was so plainly, and deceptively, the voice tells him, offering. It tells him many things that he struggles to ignore, and it convinces him, as he feels the heat in his skin finally fading, as he feels the warmth in his belly coiling tight into a dozen nervous knots, that he'll never manage to control himself, no matter what all of his professors and Alfor, and other fools like Takashi Shirogane, might claim.

Keith tells himself that he must just be tired. But dreams, he finds, prove to be of no help at all. He dreams of fire and destruction. He dreams of entire forests mowed down in his terrible path. And he dreams that he's helpless to stop it, that people are running, screaming, he's hurting them, he's hurting everything but himself.

As much as himself, it tells him. He's making them suffer as he's always suffered. He's making them feel even an ounce of the pain and loneliness that he's felt his entire life. They don’t deserve to live in such naive denial. They don’t deserve to sweep someone like him away, under so many rugs, out of sight, like an ugly blemish.

They shouldn’t be allowed to live in a world where they consider themselves better than he is. They shouldn’t be allowed to survive at all, if they can’t even be strong enough to put up a fight.

Keith hates these voices. He hates this school. He hates everything about being here—from Alfor's idyllic faith in him, to Coran's pushy concern. To the judgmental students around him, and that stupid, well meaning boy. His outstretched hand, the kindness that Keith could see in his eyes. The genuine concern that he’d shown for Keith, and the altruistic aura that Keith could feel around him, so palpable that his kindness alone could have probably smothered the flames of Keith’s rage.

Keith despises him. He despises that kindness. He despises the tender honesty. He despises that he’ll never be good enough to deserve such a thing. That it’s foolish, reckless, blind and so harmfully inept of him to ever consider accepting that horrible boy’s hand.

He sleeps fitfully. His dreams are laced with a toxin that throbs painfully against the inside of his skull. And when he wakes up, he realizes that he's set his blanket on fire in his sleep.

It isn't until the fire alarm is blaring overhead that it dawns on him that all of this is real. It’s happening in reality, and not just in his dreams.

And it’s a sizable, irreversible mistake that could cost him his board here.

It’s his second fire-related infraction in less than twenty four hours. Alfor seems tired when he calls him into the office, long after they'd called Lance and Shiro in to put out the flames. Keith hadn't liked the look of them both in his bedroom. He hadn't liked that Shiro had still smiled at him when he’d arrived—with bedhead and a dreamy, half-asleep droopiness in his eyelids. In a t-shirt and pajama pants that were littered with tiny black cats. He hadn't liked that no one was acting like any of this was a big deal—but Lance, of course, bitching and moaning and whining about all of this as though being woken up in the middle of the night could possibly be the worst thing that's ever happened to him.

Keith hates Lance too, just for that. For shooting finger guns at a few passing girls, also tired and grouchy and pulled out of bed for the sake of their own safety. He hates that Lance can’t ever take anything seriously enough.

He hates that Lance seems, all things considered, to be just as normal as the people who roam the streets just outside of those wrought iron bars.

"It's fine," Lance had told them, "Not everyone can control their powers yet. I'm sure he'll get there someday."

It should have been encouraging, but coming from Lance's mouth, Keith knows that it was intended to be anything but.

But now, he's in Alfor's office once again. He’s wondering how many times he’ll have to frequent this room before they put a nameplate for him on his usual chair.

The chair itself is cushy and comfortable. It feels just as professional and grandiose as every other dramatic fixture within these walls.

He's watching the giant grandfather clock, tucked against the wall in the corner, ticking away the minutes and the seconds on the face of it. He’s watching as it draws closer to midnight, wondering what the ring of it might sound like, if it will still manage to jar him out of his thoughts, even though he’s anticipating it.

And he's waiting for Alfor to finish talking to Lance and Shiro in the hall—commending them, he's sure, for undoing all of Keith's terrible mistakes. Telling them that he's far more hopeful for their futures than he is about Keith's, telling them and laughing with them all about how Keith will probably never leave this complex, ever again.

Keith swallows hard, gripping his fists tight against the arms of the chair. He turns his gaze out of the window, watching the distant stars twinkling out in the black night sky. He wonders how it might feel to be normal—to be more like Alfor, more like Lance, more like Shiro. To be someone so much easier to contain. To be someone who could come here and actually make progress, be helped, learn to be happy despite the pathetic lot that they were afforded in this life, without the hope of ever living among normal people without constantly needing to hide. Keith imagines that it must be nice, knowing that things will get better. He imagines that, in Lance's shoes, he wouldn't feel so at odds even among these people who should be just like him. He imagines that, perhaps, he might even be able to learn something if he weren't so consistently terrified that he's going to make a mistake. That he’ll mess up so badly that he might hurt someone again.

He waits for Alfor, wills down the instincts inside of him that compel him to light something else on fire just to relieve some tension that’s bubbling up gradually inside of him. And he wonders, with a quiet, sardonic bark of a laugh, what Alfor would do if he were to come into his office in just a moment and find that Keith had burned this, too, down to the ground.

Surely, Keith would be kicked out then. Surely, burning down his room, hurting his peers, and setting Alfor's own personal possessions on fire would be the fuck-up trifecta, the dangerous lunatic lottery that would finally get him banned from this school for life, and sent... _somewhere_. He really isn't sure where he’d go after this.

Maybe they'd take him out back and shoot him like a lame horse. Maybe they'd lock him up in some secret mutant prison, where he's sure that people like him belong. Or maybe they'd just send him out into the world again, wipe their hands of him, and pray for the best.

Maybe there's never been a student that's failed as fantastically as he has tonight. Maybe no one has ever had to deal with a destructive monster such as himself before, and they really have no clue how to handle it, beyond just squelching out this pathetic excuse of a life that he has now, pretending that Keith Kogane never existed, and carrying on in a world so much better without him.

Or maybe Alfor is just keeping him distracted here, and the remainder of his days will be spent rotting away inside of this building, with no hope of ever seeing the universe outside of these vast, iron gates ever again.

Keith imagines that he probably deserves that, as much as that specific kind of fate feels to him like nothing more than a never ending hell.

He tells himself that, after this, he'll try even harder to get better. If Alfor allows him a second, a third, a fourth or fifth undeserved chance, he will do everything in his power not to let him down. He'll work harder. He'll be better. He'll blow everyone out of the water, and he'll wipe that stupid, smug smile right off of Lance's dumb face.

But then the midnight bell chimes, Keith jumps, Alfor opens the door.

And Alfor isn't alone when he wanders into the room. In tow, is Shiro—that same gentle smile as yesterday plastered on his infuriatingly handsome face.

Keith whips his head back towards Alfor's desk, willing down the color that rises to his cheeks. He doesn't have time to get this flustered. He shouldn't be excited that it was Shiro and not Lance—or Shiro versus _anyone_ , really—when he barely even knows the guy well enough to accurately determine if he’s even nearly as nice as Keith’s hormone-fueled brain is deluding him into thinking.

Alfor rounds his desk, takes a seat behind it in his chair. Shiro comes to linger just inches away on Keith’s left side, closest to the wall. He greets Keith quietly, pulls out the chair next to him and takes a seat in it. Keith tries to keep his eyes trained safely on the spot just behind Alfor's head. He feels as though, any minute now, his body temperature is going to rise so desperately that he'll have no choice but to set something else on fire just to release the gradual buildup of it from his body.

Alfor is the first one to speak, out of the three of them, sitting together in a pregnant silence that Keith feels as though he’s drowning in.

"Keith," he says quietly, but firmly, "We really can't have you setting things on fire even while you're asleep."

He says it as though it's supposed to lighten the mood somehow. As though it's supposed to be funny, even though no one laughs. But he takes that silence in stride, carrying on as though nothing awkward has happened at all.

"When you first arrived here, we opted to give you a solo room because we weren't sure what you were capable of. But now that we've seen what can happen when you're left alone, we've decided that it might be best to assign you a bunk mate."

Oh no. No, no, no. This isn’t happening. It _can’t_ be happening.

Keith can tell where this is going already. He can't even look in Shiro's direction. He doesn't want to see the smile that he knows that he will find there. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want to be around other people, to risk hurting them. He doesn't want to spend more time with someone else than he absolutely has to. He doesn't want this boy—this horrible, handsome, kind and considerate person who makes him want nothing more than to engulf himself in flame and block out his most personable advances—he doesn't want to fool himself into thinking that he and Shiro could ever be friends. He doesn't want to feel as though there's even the slightest chance that he might be able to bond with someone surely as perfect and sinless than the boy sitting right next to him, straight backed and proper, every bit as respectful and put together as Keith knows that he'll never be.

Keith just wants to be left alone. He isn't good with other people. Alfor should know that by now. He'll hurt Shiro. He'll do something wrong. He'll mess things up, he's sure of it. He knows that he could never be capable of doing anything but destroying. He knows that Alfor is a fool to think that he could ever do anything right.

But when he does finally turn in Shiro’s direction, Shiro's smile doesn't falter. Even though he was anticipating it, it still manages to knock the air right out of his lungs.

He extends that hand again, as though he really thinks that Keith might shake it.

"We're going to be roommates," Shiro tells him, something sweet, something soft and bashful and _hopeful_ in that smile, "I hope I won't bug you too much. I promise I'm clean and quiet."

Keith doesn't shake his hand once again, and Shiro keeps it extended for an extra few heartbeats before finally setting it down. Keith feels as though the two of them are watching him with nothing short of pitiful adoration. He feels like a kitten trapped behind the metal bars of a cage in a pet store. He feels as though, if he could just dig his claws into their skin, maybe they'd understand that they shouldn't admire him. Maybe they'd stop fooling themselves into thinking that he's helpless and innocent, if only he could show them the opposite.

But he knows that _being_ dangerous and _showing other people_ that he's dangerous are two very different things. He knows that, more than anything, the entire problem with this sudden development is the fact that he doesn't _want_ to hurt anyone else, even if he thinks that singeing them just a little might clue them in on the fact that he obviously isn’t the perfect candidate for a roommate.

And he knows that inviting Shiro to stay so close to him will only result in disaster, knows that, inevitably, none of this will end in anything but fire, and calamity, and pain.

He makes a weak attempt to articulate that.

"But... b-but I don't... I don't know if..."

"It'll be fine, don't worry." Alfor cuts him off. "Coran already told me all about what happened during meditation. Shiro himself expressed interest in helping you out, isn’t that right, Shiro?”

He motions at Shiro vaguely, but Keith doesn’t have the nerve to face Shiro again just yet.

“I have faith that the two of you will make a very good team. Shiro has been at this school for three years now, right?"

Keith’s resolve weakens just enough so that his gaze snaps in Shiro’s direction for a brief moment. Shiro nods, turning that soft gaze in Alfor's direction, beaming as though he has no idea what a terrible decision this was to make.

"And he's made great strides in pursuit of finally being able to control his powers. I know that he's just the sort of role model that you need, and there's no doubt in my mind that the two of you will be able to teach each other some very important lessons."

Shiro nods again, easily, smoothly. Keith can't even find the strength to breathe.

These plans seem to be happening regardless of if he’s on board or not. Keith isn’t sure if that makes things better or worse for him. On one hand, he doesn’t want to be seen as difficult in the face of, surely, an undeserved second chance. But on the other…

“We’re going to be fitting more fire-retardant furniture in your room, for now,” Alfor tells him, “and we’ll be tweaking your course schedule as well. In place of meditation, we’ll be placing you in the care of my daughter, Allura, for the duration of that period. She’s been gifted with the ability to alter emotional states, and myself and the other instructors here believe that easing you into a state of calm might allow you to find something within yourself that will allow you to control your abilities with more ease. If this sounds okay to you, we will begin your altered schedule after you meet with me, here, tomorrow morning.”

Keith feels swept away at sea. He feels as though his fingers long sense slipped from the edge of his ship, without him noticing the feeling of it dragging away from him at all.

But Shiro, when he spares him a look, is still smiling. Something about Shiro’s ease in this situation makes him feel as though he, also, should be calm.

And so he nods, slow and jerky. He grips his hands together tight in his lap.

“If… if you think it’ll help, I guess it can’t hurt, right?”

He’ll laugh at this memory later on.

On one single day, months from now, he’ll wonder why he’d ever been stupid enough to believe that anything could ever help him.

But for now, he allows himself to be foolishly hopeful. He allows himself to dream that maybe, something might actually work out in his favor.

And the bunk that he shares with Shiro is bigger—brighter. It feels more like a comfortable home.

On Shiro’s side of the room, there are posters and personal pictures tacked up on the walls. There’s a clock radio sitting on the nightstand right by his bed, glowing with bold green letters into the darkness in the night—something for Keith to focus on while he lies awake with his thoughts alive, swirling with that mysterious voice, the memories of today, and the realization that there’s no escaping any of this, now that he’s allowed himself to become ensnared in it.

Shiro had ushered him over to one side of the room, to a clean, unmade bed with the sheets still tucked under the mattress. He’d laughed when Keith had mentioned that it looked like a hotel bed, but his smile had pulled tighter, more forced, when he’d asked Keith if he’d never seen a made bed outside of a hotel room, and Keith had told him—stupidly, without thinking, “I never had a bed before I moved here.”

He isn’t sure why he’s always saying inopportune things. He isn’t sure why he can’t at least pretend to be normal when no one is giving him a clear opening to unload his hefty baggage.

But Shiro had excused himself back to bed soon after—tucked himself under the blankets on his own bed and fallen fast asleep. Keith, in an unfamiliar place, had felt at odds without himself, had felt then as though he wasn’t sure if he’d ever sleep again—lingering so closely to someone else who he could so easily hurt if his dreams became violent enough for the second time tonight. He can’t trust himself not to lose control. He has no faith in himself to spare Shiro from his wrath, even if Shiro has been nothing but kind to him.

So now, he lies awake. He turns himself onto his back with his eyes aimed up at the ceiling. He watches the shadows creeping along the walls as the night fades out into morning—and by the time that Shiro’s clock radio blares its apparent morning song, he realizes that he hasn’t managed to sleep at all.

He feels too on edge to be tired. He feels as though his jitters alone might be able to power his life force until the day that he dies. And when Shiro pulls himself out of bed, shuts off the clock, and turns those sleepy eyes onto him, Keith isn’t sure why he freezes. He isn’t sure why he sits deadly still, watching Shiro with wide eyes as though he’s been caught doing something that he isn’t supposed to.

And he wonders, for a brief moment, if Shiro’s confused as to why he’s here. If he truly does feel like Keith isn’t supposed to be in this bed across from his. But, as Keith eventually learns that Shiro does with practically everything else, he takes this with stride, slaps on a tired smile, and greets Keith as though he isn’t surprised at all.

“Did you sleep well?” He asks.

Keith ignores him. He pulls himself away from the bed and makes a grab for the small bag of his toiletries—one of the few things salvaged from the wreckage of his room last night—before rushing off towards the bathroom.

Of course, as he’d expected, the locker room goes dreadfully quiet the moment that he pushes open the door and steps inside. He hears the tail end of a guffaw cut abruptly short. He hears the murmurs of his peers humming under the showers beating water against the tile. And he tells himself that everything, eventually, will be okay. He’ll get used to this too—or they’ll get used to him.

He tries to convince himself that he can’t be the first person to ever have an accident in the middle of the night. He struggles to convince himself that, since no one got hurt, it really can’t be that big of a deal.

But that voice in his head, persistent in its whispers, rattles around in the back of his thoughts.

_‘You aren’t the same as the rest of them. You’re more dangerous than they could possibly comprehend.’_

_‘You’re like a wild animal to all of them—look at how they’re watching you. They’re afraid.’_

_‘They let you too far out of the cage last night, didn’t they? They won’t make that mistake again.’_

_‘That Shiro boy—they’ve tasked him with being your keeper. He’s a trainer, you know. He’s the ringleader assigned to keep you locked tight within your circus cage.’_

He shakes his head, setting his toiletries bag next to the sink. He digs out his toothbrush and toothpaste, wipes the condensation from the mirror before wetting the brush under the faucet. The voices around him pick up slowly. He can no longer hear the worried murmurs. He lets out the breath that feels stale in his lungs—stinging in his chest as he drags in that first belated pull of oxygen. He tells himself, again and again, that the voice inside of his head can’t possibly be right.

And even if it is, even if all that they want from him is to diminish his flame…

Where else could he possibly go?

In his mind’s eye, he can see a place, just down the street from this complex, bathed in the black of night. He can hear that voice again, telling him to sneak out when his “keeper” is asleep, to find out all about the possibilities of what life can really offer a monster like himself.

He isn’t familiar with this voice—has never heard it before he stepped foot within these halls. And he wonders if this is some kind of test, if perhaps Alfor planted these thoughts in his head somehow, with the help of his empath daughter, with the intention of testing exactly where his loyalties lie.

He can’t imagine why a test like that would ever come in handy, but as he brushes his teeth and washes his face, he can’t really think of anything else that these thoughts could possibly be.

Exhaustion? Maybe. Stress? Perhaps.

Madness? He isn’t comfortable even considering that seriously right now.

He decides to try not to think too hard about it. He’s already running late as it is.

When he finally gets dressed and arrives in Alfor’s office, Alfor is waiting in his regular, seated position behind his desk with Shiro standing at his side. The two of them neglect to mention that he’s late, or that he should have managed his time better, or that he looks as though he hasn’t slept soundly in days, and he’s just running on nothing but pure determination and nervous fumes anymore.

They only smile at him, greet him warmly. He opts not to take Alfor’s offered hand once he stands and extends it over the desk between them.

“Today, Shiro is going to escort you to and from each of your classes, just to make sure that you know where you’re headed.”

_‘They’re keeping an eye on you.’_

“Don’t be alarmed by this, he’s just here to help.”

_‘They don’t trust you not to hurt someone if left to your own devices.’_

“Some of the rooms are just in obscure places. They aren’t easy to navigate even if you’ve been a student here for quite some time.”

_‘They’re right, aren’t they? You’re completely unhinged. You’re out of control.’_

“But please don’t hesitate to ask for his assistance if you need it for anything else.”

_‘He’s your keeper now. You’re a problem that they’ve pushed off onto this naive, helpless boy just so they don’t have to deal with you.’_

“We all want to help you, Keith. And I hope that you’ll let us know if anything is wrong.”

_‘There’s something wrong with you.’_

_‘They can see it. You can see it. They know that there’s no saving you.’_

_‘You’ll just continue to hurt people until someone finally kills you. You’re unfit to ever mingle with the human population. You’re unfit even to mingle with the other freaks here, like you. You’re a ticking time bomb. You’re an accident just waiting to happen.’_

_‘These people will never love you. They can’t. No one can.’_

_‘But we can show you how to be useful.’_

_‘We can guide you to a proper fate, befitting of someone as monstrous and destructive as yourself.’_

His head hurts.

He just wants to go back to bed.

 

* * *

 

Shiro is waiting reliably for him outside of his first period classroom the moment that he files out behind his peers. He isn’t entirely sure what sort of schedule Shiro must have around here, what sorts of classes they have for the people who obviously have a good handle on their abilities, but he finds that, even when he wonders these things, he doesn’t have the nerve to actually ask about them.

Shiro is intimidating, for reasons unknown to him. He rises from his seated position on the floor next to the door, extending a hand, but ushering Keith to follow him without actually touching him. Keith appreciates the discretion, even if it makes him feel a little bit hot in the cheeks. He knows that Shiro must have been watching him closely enough to understand that he doesn’t like being touched, but he also understands how strange that must seem to a regular person.

How weird it must be to someone who can’t possibly understand it.

But Shiro speaks to him as they walk, tells him all about the architecture of the buildings that they’re passing and the random trivia about this old campus that he can’t possibly think that Keith would actually care about. Keith listens to him without really taking in much of what he’s saying—finds himself lulled into a naive sense of security just from the sound of his voice and the small distance that he carefully keeps between them while still lingering close enough to guide him through the moving crowds.

He’s talking then about a stone fountain that they’ve passed just on the left, as they take a sharp turn beyond some artful shrubbery and Shiro leads him down a path that he’s never even noticed before.

“They’ve had to replace that fountain three times since I came here,” Shiro tells him with a bashful laugh, “We’ve gotten quite a few people in here with water attributes, and we’ve realized that they seem particularly keen on breaking the pipes, but… I have to admit, one of the worst disasters was because of me.”

This finally manages to pique Keith’s interest. His attention is diverted to Shiro’s words so quickly that he almost feels whiplash because of it.

Shiro laughs at, surely, the wideness of his eyes. The slack, open-mouthed gape that he’s too tactless to hide. He’s quick to train his expression into something less offensively astonished, something that he imagines might be less rude. But Shiro waves a hand in front of him, as though to knock those insecurities right out of the conversation, before Keith even manages to apologies on behalf of them.

“I know, I know, how can the guy who manipulates wind break a giant stone fountain, right? I mean, it’s gotta be the least menacing ability in the universe.”

He slows his gait down to a very gradual walk. Keith slows down as well, taking an extra step to put more distance between them as the path leads them through what appears to be a secret, elaborate garden maze.

“When I came here, I was scared… and I was alone, and I was used to being the only person who I knew who had this terrible secret, and this dangerous ability that had already hurt a lot of people who I cared about. I know that you understand that—the feeling of being too powerful to possibly ever hope of being around normal people. Sort of… distancing yourself from them because you don’t know what you’re capable of, or when accidents can happen. You definitely aren’t the first or only person here who’s done something that they regret.”

Keith feels like sandpaper is lining his throat. He swallows around it, a short, stunted breath heaving out of his lungs. His heart patters around within his chest—like a butterfly pinned between someone’s fingers, like a bird in a cage, desperate to escape a cat’s paw jammed through the bars.

“They asked me to control myself, but… it felt so fruitless. It felt like everything that they asked me to try just made me go more out of control. And after another failed session, I freaked out, and… well…”

He waves a hand dismissively in the air, and Keith doesn’t miss the way that a few leaves on the bushes that they’re passing are pushed back by the force of his hand sweeping widely alone. Keith wonders, if he could break stone, if he could lift a person too. He wonders, if Shiro tried hard enough, if he could fly.

It’s a funny thought, but right now, laughing is the last thing that he wants to do. And definitely the least appropriate course of action that he could take.

“You hurt people,” he says instead, because even still, he’s too clumsy to be good conversation. He never knows how to say the right thing at the right time.

But Shiro turns that smile back on him—a sad smile, a lost smile, but an offer of kindness in the face of his own helplessness nonetheless.

“I have, before all of this. I accidentally pushed another student at my high school out of a window, which is… how I ended up here in the first place. The authorities couldn’t figure out how I managed to shove him from all the way across the room, but the teacher was determined that I’d done something. This place, the people here, they have connections and they can find us if we make a big enough scene. I’m thankful that they found me. I’m eternally grateful that I don’t have to live that fearful life anymore.”

High above them, Keith can hear birds fluttering about in the sky. In the far distance, he can hear the hustle and bustle of the town beyond the campus roaring with life that he isn’t sure if he’ll ever experience again.

But Shiro’s smile is warmer than anything Keith has ever touched in his entire life. Warmer than the flames that often consume him. Warmer than anything that he’s ever felt aimed wholly, directly at himself.

“I was you once, Keith,” Shiro tells him, “I can understand how afraid you are. I can understand how you must think that things will never get better. But I see so much potential in you. I can tell that you’re a good person. I know that you’re trying your best.”

Keith tears his gaze away. They’re coming close enough to another building that he knows that this moment will be over soon— _finally_ , or entirely too quickly, he still isn’t quite sure how to feel about it.

But he knows that he doesn’t move away when Shiro draws nearer, how he should. He doesn’t put up a fight when Shiro reaches forward and grasps his hand—when he feels the warmth and the softness of another person’s skin touching his own, when he knows that this is far too close and too dangerous and he should have been smart enough to prevent this.

Shiro raises their hands between them. They’ve stopped now, just a few yards away from the front door of this hidden building, and Shiro has cast those dark eyes down at him, his lips turned up in that frustratingly handsome smile, his cheeks kissed with such a cute shade of pink that Keith isn’t sure who feels more embarrassed in this situation—himself, heart pounding, skin skittering with a thousand restless nerves as he struggles to memorize what it feels to be touched by another person. And Shiro, his grin faltering, tight around the edges. His flushed skin bathed in the shadows from the thick foliage above them, his warm, soft fingers jittering ever so slightly where they’ve laced themselves around Keith’s.

“You don’t have to be afraid of yourself, or what you can do,” Shiro tells him, his voice so quiet that it feels like nothing but the wind combing through the trees and the bushes around them, “You could hurt me right now, but you aren’t. Fire isn’t just violent, Keith. Air isn’t just life. Wind can break through stone. Tornadoes and tsunamis hurt people all the time, but…”

He turns then, sweeping his free hand out into the air. He’s tugging Keith forward, only slightly, by their interlocked hands. He’s taking in the world with such an astounding expression of adoration that Keith feels as though the breath has been rattled from his lungs.

“If you were to burn this entire place down, life would still regrow from the ashes. And in months, years, these plants would come back stronger and more healthy than ever. Fire is a fresh start, Keith. Fire is rebirth. And just like your fire, just like these trees, just like that fountain that I destroyed… you can rebuild yourself here. If you work hard, if you care enough, you can become someone bigger and braver and _better_ than you could have ever imagined yourself being.”

Keith holds Shiro's gaze as long as he possibly can, sits there under the warmth of his hand, under that kind, considerate, smothering gaze. And he simmers for a moment, revels in the feeling of being so close to another person without hurting them. He considers that maybe this is what being normal feels like—considers that, in a different life, he might be able to stand with Shiro in this exact place, without worrying that perhaps he might burn him. But Shiro is looking at him now as though he could never expect pain to result from any of this. He's looking at Keith as though he could possibly be anything but hurtful, or dangerous, or destructive.

He’s looking at Keith the way that people look at bonfires, or fireworks. How they light menorahs among family and friends, light candles atop birthday cakes, or cuddle together in front of a fireplace in the winter.

Shiro seems to believe everything that he’s saying. And he looks at Keith now, not as though he’s something to be feared, but admired instead.

Keith has never felt like artwork before. He’s never felt beautiful. He’s never felt worthy of love.

But now, with his hand in Shiro’s, under this bright, open blue sky, with the breeze combing through his hair, with the feeling of their twin pulses pounding between their tethered fingers—

He can’t imagine the feeling that’s spilling out from the deep, often empty recesses of his chest to be anything else.

And just as he opens his mouth to respond—just as some semblance of a coherent reply forms itself belatedly on his tongue—a sharp pain flashes through his head, reverberating against the inside of his skull.

He tears away from Shiro, just as he feels the hot lick of fire rising under his skin, popping with eager heat already in his fingertips.

Shiro calls out behind him, as he trudges away towards the building. And he imagines that the cry grating through his throat like sandpaper, like a hundred tiny razor blades, might resemble some sort of an explanation, an excuse, a, _"I can find the room just fine, thanks!"_ before he's barreling off through the heavy front doors into the relief of air conditioning and stone decor that he knows his fire won’t damage irreparably. Until he's far enough away from Shiro that he allows himself to slump down bonelessly against one of the walls in the empty hall, and rubs both hands furiously over his face.

In his thoughts, that familiar voice is rattling around.

It's telling him,

_'You're going to hurt that boy before this is over.'_

_'He's never going to forgive you after what you’ll do to him.'_

_'Before the end of this, he'll see what a monster you are.'_

_'He'll understand, finally, just how unfit you are to be seen around the populace of normal humans. he'll understand why that coward Alfor pawned you off on him.'_

_'Don't get too close, monster. Even air can sometimes be set aflame.'_

He just wants to go back to sleep. He just wants to be anywhere but here.

He just wants to be a normal person—who could have held Shiro's hand with confidence, without any fear that he might char that perfect skin if he happened to hold on for too long.

 

* * *

 

The days pass slowly, with the two of them spending more and more time together. The first week is an awkward square dance—the two of them bumping elbows and stepping on feet in a struggle to accommodate another person in their presence after spending so much time in solo dorms.

Keith gradually grows used to having another person in such close quarters. He understands, belatedly, why so many people prefer to live with someone else. There's something pleasant about knowing that another person is there with him. That if he wakes up in the middle of the night, head pounding, thoughts swimming with that terrible voice, Shiro is always close by.

There's some relief that he finds in seeing that familiar smile—hearing that melodious laugh. Knowing that Shiro has been willing to put up with his idiosyncrasies thus far, and it's beginning to feel as though he might never go away.

And in class, in the few periods that he spends with other people, he's found some semblance of normalcy. He's learned, slowly, grudgingly, to have some meager control over his powers.

Pidge, the girl who can grow vines from seemingly thin air, who can conjure up wildflowers if she ever happens to walk with bare feet on the grass, she teaches him how to steady his breathing without the condescension that he's found in the majority of his professors. She tells him to draw in the most air that he possibly can, to imagine that he's diving deep down in the ocean and he'll need to expand his lungs as wide as humanly possible. And she tells him to hold it—"For one—two—three—four—five seconds!" She tells him, a finger shoved sharply in his face, "And then you slowly let it out. Breathe in and out until you’re focusing so hard on how on fire your lungs are instead of why you’re so mad!”

She laughs then, asking him with a surprisingly charming level of curiosity if his lungs, in fact, have ever been on fire, and if he's ever tried to blow out flame.

"It comes from my fingers, mostly," Keith tells her, glancing down uncomfortably at his hands and lamenting briefly on the idea that no one has ever taken in interest that isn't in some level self-preserving in his abilities, "but when I get more out of control, I guess it comes from everywhere. I've never tried to breathe it though. I... I don't know if I could."

Hunk, the boy whose powers Keith isn't sure are concentrated on dragging stone from the Earth or simply manipulating that stone once it's available to him, makes a joke about dragons. Pidge shoves him playfully, her cheeks hot as she defends herself.

"Dragons are cool!" she chides, "But that's not even the point! It's just—if he can concentrate that power enough to figure out where it's coming from, don't you think he'd have better control over it? Like maybe, if he harnesses his abilities and focuses more on trying to redistribute them, he might realize that he's able to manage it during the more intense breakouts too."

It sounds like it should make sense, but Keith imagines that it's easier said than done. Shiro laughs when Keith mentions it later on. He keeps his distance—short as it is—just as he always does. He guides Keith to class even though Keith is sure by now that he could navigate these paths in his sleep.

"Pidge has a lot of good ideas," Shiro tells him, leading him through the slow-fading flora—cast now in oranges and browns, as the summer fades out into autumn, "You'd be surprised to find out that she only came here because she accidentally filled her parents’ house with her vines, right? When she came here, she was just as directionless and confused as the rest of us."

Keith knows that Shiro elects to focus on everything that Keith has in common with his peers—which, regretfully, is mainly his fear and discomfort here, his inability to fit in just right, and his frustration with how slow of progress he's making when everyone else seems to have it perfectly figured out.

But sometimes he talks about Lance too—that insufferable jackass, who still hasn't lightened up even over the months that they've had to get used to each other.

"Lance comes from a big family," Shiro had told him only days ago, when Keith had been ranting about Lance's penchant for undermining every single stride that he's made so far to improve himself, "He's the only one in that family who's like us. I think... he feels alienated because of it. He feels like he's let his family down, because he couldn't be more normal. And he can't be there to see his nieces and nephews grow up... He's here, instead. Trying to “get better.” I think, in a way, he considers his birthright to be a personal failure. He thinks that he's a burden, just because he was born the way that he was born."

And Shiro had turned to him, taken his hand again, and he'd told him, in that gentle sing-song voice, in those words as light as air, as sweet as honey, as soft as silk and just as much pleasant and comforting as every wonderful sensation that Keith can possibly catalog in his thoughts, "It has nothing to do with you, Keith. I think... in a way, he might be jealous of you. I know it might not feel that way from your perspective, but... there's something about you that's so different than anyone else. And I think everyone here can feel it, too. And I think... between you and me, your abilities are only so hard to manage because they're more powerful than many that we've seen here."

Keith isn't sure about that at all. He doesn't know how he feels about the concept of being worse because he's better—or if he truly believes that Shiro is being genuine with him, and not just stroking his ego for the sake of building his confidence somewhat.

Keith doesn't feel better than Lance. He doesn't feel better than anyone.

As far as he's concerned, he might as well still be a black burn mark right in the center of this campus. He might as well be an unsightly stain that they'll never completely manage to wipe away.

But Shiro is drawing nearer, because Keith hasn't run away. Shiro's hand is still soft and comforting in his own. He's still handsome, still charming, still soft in so many ways that Keith himself feels that he could never be.

And Shiro is bending downward, that gentle smile bending up at the edges, that color rising to his cheeks once again.

"You burn brighter than anyone I've ever met," Shiro tells him, then laughs, nervously, reaching up to rest his free hand against Keith's burning cheek, "No pun intended, actually, but... Ever since I first saw you, I have to admit... I felt like you'd be branded in my thoughts forever."

Keith doesn't have the opportunity to contemplate whether or not that second pun was actually intended this time. Because Shiro is leaning closer, coming so dangerously near. Keith can feel the heat roiling under his skin, already beginning to grow too hot under his fingertips. But just as Shiro's lips come close enough that he can feel the ghost of them against his skin, just as his instincts to flee finally belatedly kick in, there's a snap of a branch behind them, a sputtered curse, and the moment is broken so quickly that Keith feels every ounce of flame leave him at once. So quickly, he thinks, that he can feel it rushing like steam in his head.

Pidge is standing awkwardly just behind them, her shoulders squared and her entire figure warped in such an interesting, panicked pose. As though she's been trying to emulate some form of artful statue to trick them into thinking that she's just a piece of scenery and not a peeping tom. As though Keith could ever just ignore that someone else just witnessed this moment—whatever the Hell it was—and there's definitely no way that he could ever explain away everything that she's surely just walked in on.

"I—I uh... sorry, guys, I... I was trying to catch Keith because... he forgot his notes from class, and... and I thought, you know, better... give those back so he doesn't fall behind with studying, so... uh..."

She paces meekly forward, evening out her posture. Shiro has pulled just far enough away that any new onlookers now wouldn't have any clue of what's gotten the three of them so flustered. But the moment that Pidge extends the notebook in her hands, and Keith thanks her with a dry throat and a heavy, formless tongue, she's off again—scampering off through the trees and the bushes and around the blind corners so quickly that Keith wonders if she was ever even here at all.

Shiro clears his throat. Keith pulls the notebook closer to his chest, pressing it firmly there with both arms.

"That... wasn't very appropriate of me, I'm sorry."

Keith cocks his head to the side, "Don't apologize right after you did it. You don't sound very sorry."

Shiro's skin immediately grows a deeper shade of scarlet. He reaches up a hand and scratches at the back of his head.

"I-I mean... I guess I'm sorry if you didn't... want it? But I'm not... sorry if you... maybe... wanted to try that again some time."

"Sometime" won't come for a very, very long time after this moment. Sometime will seem so impossibly distant, just days into the future that Keith will wonder if it will ever happen at all.

But in this moment, Keith pushes out a slow breath and turns away. He ignores the swift pounding of his own heart.

"It was fine," he says, because he's never been very good with words, "Just don't do it in public next time."

And that seems to be that. Shiro laughs, they keep walking, and when Shiro guides him to his next class, when they finally reach the front doors, Keith finds that he's finally decided between the warring opinions—"finally" or "too soon."

In the following months, he might deny it. He might consider that maybe he was just a selfish fool.

But in this moment, he wishes that they had more time.

For the rest of his life, he might consider, too, that maybe things would have turned out better for them, if only he'd had more time.

 

* * *

 

Nearing the cusp of autumn, Keith experiences the final moment that cements his decision to _move_ —to do something, to make a decision among all of his rampant disarray and indecision. The moment that compels him to take this opportunity is so short that it's over in the blink of an eye. It's so quick that he might have missed it, had he not found himself in the center of all of the chaos.

And he doesn't know how it happened— because one moment everything was fine. He was practicing his breathing, he was taking a tentative step forward to showcase the moves that he'd practiced so meticulously in the prior months. He'd been hard at work—trying anything and everything to get a firmer handle on everything that has felt so out of control.

And he'd found, gradually, that the voices might never stop. But he's gotten better at ignoring them. He'd gotten better, at his strongest moments, considering that maybe his brain is just wrong.

Shiro still holds his hand just before he allows him to leave for class. Pidge still teaches him all of the nifty little skills that she's learned or taught herself. And Keith thought that everything was going smoothly. He thought that, finally, things might be changing in his favor.

But today, the final day, he wonders if everything that he's worked so hard to build up for himself could truly so easily be toppled down.

He wonders if the life that he's struggled so hard to make for himself was really so precarious that all it would take was one misstep, one stupid mistake, one lapse in judgement on his professor's part in tasking him with conjuring a small flame to show the class how much he's improved.

He'd had control of it, at first. He'd called a tiny flicker of light from the tip of his finger. Shiro, at the back of the room—in their one shared period—had clapped. Pidge had hooted and hollered, Hunk had congratulated him, loud and boastful, and for once, Keith had felt connected to everyone. He’d felt as though, by some miracle, he’d actually managed to find a place for himself among their ranks.

But it was Lance who had triggered it—unknowingly, for once, putting his best foot forward with only the most gentle intentions for himself, and Keith.

"Looks like the hotshot really can learn to simmer down, huh? Nice job, Sparky."

Keith isn't entirely sure what had overcame him then. But he recognized the screaming. In the confusion, in the lick of orange flame, in the unimaginable and inexplicable stress that had overtaken him, he'd barely registered the screams of his peers around him. The gust of Shiro pushing back his flames, the howls in pain and terror of everyone in the front row who'd fallen victim to the burn that he'd unleashed upon them.

Coran had rushed forward, Shiro had rushed forward.

That voice in his thoughts had cackled madly, as he’d choked on the sickening, all-consuming scent of charred skin.

Before either of them could put a hand on him, lest they burn themselves on the slowly dwindling fire around him, Keith had torn out of the room, barreled so quickly down the halls that he was sure that tiny fires had been left in a thin trail in his wake.

Outside hadn't felt like a relief. Freedom and open air hadn't taken the edge off of the heat. Keith's flames would stay lit for hours after. It wouldn't be until he was ushered into Alfor's office once they finally tracked him down in the dying garden maze that the final lick of fire would eventually fade away from his skin.

"Well, this isn't good," Alfor had told him, "This really isn't good at all. But it was an accident, right?"

Keith hadn't offered him any words, or any indication that he'd heard him at all. His thoughts were too alive with that voice booming in his ears. His mind was too overtaken with the images of his classmates burning, and pained, flickering like a film reel in the back of his brain.

"Well... I understand that it was a mistake. But we need to take precautions. Those kids' parents are going to demand answers as to why their children got hurt under our care. You peers might not understand that you didn't intend to hurt them, as I have. I think it would be in our best interest if we ceased mixed classes for you, for the time being. Until it's apparent that you can mingle with the general populace here without incident, I think it might be best to keep you remotely contained."

_'You're a monster. He can see it now. You're uncontrollable. They're trying to hide you away. We can show you true power. We can show you the true extent of your abilities. These people will never appreciate you for who you are—what you are. They only want to hinder you. They only want to stunt your growth.'_

"You aren't in trouble, Keith. This is just a precaution. I hope you don't consider this to be a punishment, but our hands are tied here. It's simply unsafe and irresponsible to allow you to continue attending classes after such a dire incident. I understand that it was an accident. I know that you've been working and trying very hard, but... We just can't allow our other students, your friends, your peers, to continue attending classes in such a dangerous environment."

That night, he packs his bags.

It’s easy to avoid what lax security that this campus seems to have. It’s simple enough to sneak around corners and over fences, to slink off into the night with only his blurry memories and the voice in his head guiding the way.

And he only takes a moment, only hesitates for a mere flash of a second, to turn around and breathe in his last breath of this complex’s air. He only pauses for a blink of an eye, to think about everything that he’s leaving behind.

But Pidge and Hunk, he knows, can’t possibly want to be around him after this. None of the shaky relationships that he’s built up so far can possibly withstand such a terrible misstep.

He’s dangerous. He doesn’t belong here—or anywhere, really. There’s no place for him among these walls, with these good people. With these people who try their best and inevitably succeed. With these people who have never hurt anyone, now that they understand the extent of their powers.

The voice in his head is urging him forward. Like a soft shove against his shoulder, like a rope coiled and pulling at the back of his brain.

He disappears into a dark city in the middle of the night.

And he wonders, for a long time, if Shiro will miss him when he realizes that he’s gone.

 

* * *

 

There’s a chaotic confusion wrapped around the school that Shiro can feel pounding on the inside of his skull. All around him, people are running, people are fighting, people are screaming in a world engulfed in flame. It’s so bright and booming, so overwhelming and absolutely maddening that he can barely bring himself to recognize who are the attackers and who are his peers, struggling desperately to hold down the fort against this unprovoked attack.

He’s useless, in these situations. He feels as though his powers are so unmatched by the sheer veracity of the people currently unleashing a living Hell upon them. He watches as a masked figure twists the bodies of a few unlucky peers into unnatural positions, feels his heartbeat stall then skitter in his chest when all that he can do is propel a gust of wind to knock the attacker off balance, just long enough for their spell to break and those people to run and hide.

He knows that his abilities are far better suited for being on the defensive. He knows that, deep down, he’s never wanted to be a fighter, a soldier, or anyone who enacts violence on another person—whether they deserved it or not.

And he isn’t prepared, when he makes it to the gates—when he tells himself that he needs to get there, even though he doesn’t understand why, even though he has no idea what someone as useless and helpless as himself could possibly do in a situation such as this one.

And the fire engulfing all entrances, trapping everyone inside…

It’s familiar in a way that curdles the blood in his veins.

That sends nerve scouring and skittering like lit fireworks whistling off into the night sky, straight down into his bones.  

He watches as a figure raises their hands over their head, as the flames grow higher, as the people scream.

This group, Alfor has told them before, is led by an old ally turned enemy. Zarkon seduces outcasts such as themselves, who can’t even seem to fit in among their peers. He manipulates them with stories of creating a world where everyone is like them, and no one can ever point and laugh at them again. It’s an idealistic story--akin to a children’s fairy tale for the destitute, for the hopeless. It’s a cruel lie that seduces those who feel as though they have nowhere else to turn.

And his witch—a terrible, dangerous woman who Alfor has spoken of casting spells on unknowing new recruits, planting herself in their heads and causing accidents to happen until they’re driven away from their peers. She’s doubly as dangerous, Alfor had told them. But the two of them, shadowed, mysterious figures, work quietly behind the scenes. Mere flashes of ghost stories whispered around this complex late at night.

Nervous jokes that his peers sometimes tell each other, never quite willing to admit that something like this could actually happen.

But Zarkon and his witch, Haggar, they make accidents happen. They push innocent, terrified people into straying from the righteous path. They create confusion and misfortune to further their own agendas.And everything suddenly focuses into shocking clarity. Everything, all at once, so quickly that the thoughts give him a head rush, it all makes sense.

Keith’s accidents, the pain that Shiro’s often witnessed him in, when he thinks that no one is paying attention. His refusal to believe that he’s trying hard enough. His denial in the face of people who only want to help.

But that epiphany doesn’t make the sight of the person building these flames higher and higher, whiter and more dangerous, any more shocking.

It doesn’t make the scene that he witnesses at the gates any easier to actually believe.

Because they lock eyes, and the person looking back at him doesn’t falter, doesn’t register him, doesn’t hesitate to continue on at all.

The person trapping everyone here is doing so with a resolve so strong that Shiro feels pinned under the massive weight of their stare.

The person who he’d touched, and almost kissed. The person who he’d made laugh sometimes, with whom he’d shared a room, who he’d grown closer and closer to until the sting of their absence had worn a hole straight through the center of his life.

The person casting flames turns their gaze away. They know that he’s useless now. They aren’t afraid of him. They don’t seem to care about him at all.

But Shiro, barely holding on, resists the overwhelming urge to fall to his knees.

He’s stunned into silence, into stillness.

Because that person…

It’s Keith.

_God, it’s Keith._

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request from the always wonderful [Cas](http://sweetsonryse.tumblr.com/)! I’ve never written an AU like this one before, and I have to admit that my knowledge of this particular universe was sort of… limited. But I really hope that I managed to do a decent job nonetheless!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


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